By Francis X. Maier.

Colorado has dozens of ski resorts. The official count is 41. Vail and Aspen, Telluride, and Steamboat Springs get the lion's share of attention. But little ski gems like Wolf Creek and Crested Butte abound. Our family favorite, in the 18 years we lived in Denver, was Arapahoe Basin. Tucked into the Continental Divide just 65 miles from our home, "A-Basin" was an easy drive and a laid-back local magnet. It offered a few beginner runs, but the resort was, and is, short on frills and has little patience with posers.

A-Basin attracts the serious skier. The Lenawee Express lift drops skiers off at 12,456 feet. From there, the experienced or the foolhardy can trudge to the East Wall summit, with its double black-diamond runs, at more than 13,000 feet. Whether from prudence or cowardice, I never did the summit. The unskilled or unwary can fall 600 feet. But skiing down from the top of the safe and more sensible Lenawee lift is a sacramental experience in itself. The speed, the thin fierce air, and the whisper of snow racing beneath one's skis: These things suspend time.

The real glory of A-Basin, though, is the rising sun on the East Wall's face at dawn: a panorama of sheer granite rock, towering and massive, shining with austere majesty. It's non-human. More than human. And for anyone with eyes and a soul, it compels humility. As God said to Job: "Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth… when the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?" (Job 38: 4-7)

There, at the East Wall, the words still hang in the air.

All of the above is stored away in my family's memory. But what triggered my recent remembering is an exchange I had with a good friend. We share a love of films. He mentioned in passing his annoyance with overpraised directors; the excessive laurels heaped on the work of men like Stanley Kubrick, Francis Ford Coppola, and Terrence Malick. And it's true that Hollywood slathers its film "geniuses" with praise as thick as Pompeii's lava crust. But on the matter of Terrence Malick, my friend and I disagree. As a director, Malick's films have often had a Christian undercurrent. And two of his films in particular speak powerfully to our present moment. Here's the first.

A Hidden Life (2019) is based on the story of Franz Jägerstätter. An Austrian peasant farmer born out of wedlock in 1907, he was raised Catholic. But he underwent a deeper conversion in the mid-1930s with the rise of National Socialism in neighboring Germany and marriage to his wife Franziska, a committed Catholic.

Jägerstätter was the only man in his village to vote against Anschluss (union) with the Third Reich in 1938. As Nazi wartime atrocities and pressure on the Church increased, he grew more vocal against the regime. He was called up for military service in February 1943. He refused to take an oath of personal loyalty to Adolph Hitler, claimed conscientious objection, and offered to serve in a non-combat role.

This was rejected. Jägerstätter was arrested and charged with undermining military morale. He refused to relent and resisted all attempts at persuasion and intimidation. He was executed in August 1943. In June 2007, Pope Benedict XVI declared Jägerstätter a martyr. He was beatified later that year.

Malick captures Jägerstätter's character, and the tenderness of his married and family life, with exceptional skill. But the film's decisive scene takes place in prison. Preparing for trial, Jägerstätter's defense lawyer notes that if he just signs a simple statement retracting his views, he'll be released and likely be allowed to serve as a hospital orderly. Jägerstätter asks, "Will I be required to swear loyalty to Hitler?"

The attorney shrugs, "Oh, words. No one takes that sort of thing seriously." Jägerstätter responds, "I can't." His attorney argues, "Just sign this [paper] and you will go free." Jägerstätter replies, "But I am free." He refuses to sign because words matter. Words reveal ...